CHAPTER XIX
Midnight.
For more than an hour they had remained in their cramped hiding place, waiting. Brennan smoked innumerable cigarettes while they talked in whispers. A policeman had walked through the alley peering into the shadows and they had crouched breathless until he passed them.
The noise of the city had quieted. Except for an occasional street car or passing automobile a silence brooded over the downtown district. Stray cats appeared to rummage in battered cans and a huge rat darted between their legs.
The cool of the night, Southern California's balm to aid sleep "knit up the raveled sleeve of care," chilled them. Murphy took frequent "nips" from a flask, which he offered generously to his companions each time before he put it to his mouth. Brennan told them stories of experiences in the Canadian northwest and adventures in a "comic opera" revolution in Central America. Murphy supplied anecdotes of the ring, things he had seen and done as a second at boxing matches. John listened to them, enraptured.
Somewhere a clock struck the half hour, and as the sound died away they heard quick footsteps approaching them. Murphy looked cautiously around the corner of the brick wall and brought himself back with a jerk.
"It's them," he said, in a hoarse whisper. He stepped back to make room for John and Brennan at the narrow aperture looking out on the alley.